


you are a minute of quiet (in a loud, loud world)

by shadowycorner



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Ancient magic, Dashing Arthur Weasley, Dragons, F/M, Falling In Love, Grieving, Grumpy Detective, Magic, Mermaids, Mystery, Prophecies, Quest, Rebellious Molly Prewett, Romance, Runaway, Scotland, Strangers to Lovers, War, becoming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29869029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowycorner/pseuds/shadowycorner
Summary: Dorothea Prewett has lost all her children, except one. But she's a wild thing, and on the run. She will do what's in her power to bring her daughter home.Arthur Weasley is in his first job as an assistant to a grumpy old detective, yet their first case is anything but what he expected it to be.And somewhere out there, a girl with a broken heart and an empty soul decides that hell take it all, she is going to become legend.
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley





	1. Prologue

Arthur Weasley approached the shrunken shadow of a woman in the armchair, close at heel to his boss, detective Ichabod Lupin. He could think of a number of places he’d rather be, and an even larger number of things he’d rather be doing instead. Hovering above an old crone was not one of them. Neither was being assigned as a helper to the craggy grump of a man in his moth-eaten cloak and entire being smelling of cigar smoke.

But here he was, and here he had to stay for a while if he had any hope whatsoever at a career worth a damn in the Ministry.

“Come closer, I say, I have not the eyes to see you proper,” the woman rasped, her voice scuttling through the room like spiders with pincers for feet.

“We’re close enough, Madame, I wouldn’t wish to offend you with my stench or the sharp glare of my associate’s hair,” Lupin said, indicating to Arthur, ignoring the latter’s frown completely.

Dorothea Prewett huffed in her armchair and leaned forward. Her face would have had been beautiful once, Arthur thought, had it not been cross crossed by deep frown and worry lines. Her expression was like a mask of endless anger, high cheekbones thin and cutting. Yet as she met Lupin’s eyes, and then Arthur’s, a softness stole into hers, something sad and melancholy, speaking of a loss he couldn’t quite comprehend.

“Five children I had brought into this world, through pain and through tears, but with immense joy of how they will carry on the family name and each fulfil a grand destiny of their own. They were all so exquisite. Marianne, my eldest, she was most like me, except for that soft heart of hers, but otherwise made of steel. No dark spell she couldn’t fight against, no force of nature or life she couldn’t withstand. It was the dragonpox that took her.

“Magnus went to fight a Muggle war for a Muggle woman that snared his heart. I will never forgive her, may she _never_ rest in peace,” she spat, eyes darkening, a storm light flashing within.

Silence followed while Arthur only quickly recounted the huge story about the great Magnus Prewett, best duellist of his era, cut down by iron bullets from primitive Muggle contraptions called guns. All for loving a woman way beneath his station, a Muggle at that, the horror. Arthur remembered with distaste how the Daily Prophet had made it sound as though he had deserved it, as though he had been weak.

There was nothing weak about loving a woman with all your heart and soul, no matter who that woman was, was Arthur’s opinion, plain and simple.

Ichabod was growing impatient, Arthut could tell. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, itching for a cigar for sure. Beads of perspiration glistened on his brow. It was hot in the room, yet Dorothea still appeared to be shivering.

“Madame-”

“And then the boys,” she cut him off, not on purpose it would seem, for she now truly grew small, defeated. “Like two suns they shone so bright. Full of fire and light both. My two lions, slaughtered by that scum. Outnumbered them and fought dirty is what they had to do to stand a chance against those two.”

She bent forward as if she wanted to weep yet no sound escaped her. She just stared into nothing, a mixture of fury and grief etched in her gnarled old features.

“Madame Prewett, what would you have us do? There is no way of bringing back the dead, you should know.”

“Who do you take me for, Lupin, some daft old bat?” she said, her voice steady and clear now as she, raised a thin finger to point at him. “Of course I know they’re dead, the lot of them. They have a reckoning coming to them once this old soul goes off to the afterlife,” she said, stabbing her chest with her finger, “for leaving this world before me. The nerve! No, you are not here to fetch the dead for me, but fetching you will do. I have yet one child left to me, only it despises me. But I will not let her come to harm, I will not let her leave me like they had, if it is the last. Thing. I. Do.”

She took a deep breath and straightened in the chair. Arthur saw that flash and hint of ageless beauty and grace in her once more. Her grey hair, still streaked by red in some places, glistened in the firelight of the candles.

“Over there, boy,” she shouted at him, pointing to the mantelpiece over the fireplace. “Bring me the photograph.”

Arthur turned to go, rolling his eyes in the process. He grabbed the silvered frame without looking at it and returned to where Ichabod was positively scowling and growling now. He handed it to the old man, and Ichabod snatched it but did not look at it, rounding on Dorothea.

“I am not a retriever of children! I do not operate as a baby-sitter to runaway rebellious maidens. I solve crimes and murders. Mysteries.”

“Well this _is_ a mystery, if you so desire, and don’t get familiar with me! I promise you the sum you’ll get for finding her and bringing her home will make you want to work as a baby-sitter for the rest of your days if all the jobs will pay as good as this. Now enough, take a good look at that photograph. I have a suspicion, based on some information I’ve gathered, that she’s gone to the Hebrides.”

Ichabod and Arthur both glanced down at the black and white photo, in which a young woman grinned down at them from the branch of a tree, dangling bare feet in the air. Her dress billowed in the breeze, as well as thick wavy hair that cascaded down to her shoulders. She had full cheeks blossoming with joy and mischief. Her body was poised on the tree in confidence and strength. Arthur felt a dizziness such as he had never known overcome him, sneak into his chest where it burned within him, but with a soft simmering glow, like the morning sun after a dark and cold night.

“Hebrides,” Ichabod sighed, tossing the photograph back to Arthur who caught it gingerly between his hands. “Why would she go to Hebrides?”

Dorothea closed her eyes, slow and dramatic, as an almost exasperated sigh escaped her lips.

“Why, to become a dragon rider, of course.”


	2. A Handful of Photographs

A grey white seagull landed on a small speck of a white beach. In its beak it carried a hard-won piece of crab, a worthy prize nipped from the eatery nestled in the port on the other side of the little island. Comfortable on the ground, unbothered by the light drizzle, it delved into its meal with gusto, the cracking of beak on shell swallowed by the soft gurgles of the tide.

A rumbling from under the water startled the bird. Flapping its wings, it took off, realizing only too late that it had left the snack behind.

The waves churned and parted, and from the folds of water a big purple vehicle burst out, coming onto the beach, sending sprays of wet sand and slate rock flying in all directions. Underneath its tires, a crab shell cracked into nothingness. The seagull grunted and flew even further back, affronted at this display of outright disrespect towards its lunch time.

Rivulets of water trickled down the bus on all sides while ribbons of brown and reddish kelp seaweed stuck to the windows and tangled in between the windshield wipers. The door of the bus opened and a wave of water burst out, running down the steps, back into the sea.

When Arthur Weasley stepped off the Knight Bus, sopping wet, he had to pause to gather breath and let his stomach settle. Fresh sharp air filled him with probably too much life and freshness, he thought, just as Ichabod stumbled out cursing behind him.

As they regained some balance, two large trunks flew out at them as if lunged from a spring somewhere inside the double-decker. Ichabod managed to duck just in time.

“Impediment-”

Arthur’s spell choked out only half-way, he managed to slow down the flying luggage, but it still hit him squarely in the chest, sending him flying backwards.

“Put that thing away you fool!” Ichabod hissed at his wand. “There will be Muggles about.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows and scowled.

“Didn’t a magical bus just emerge from the sea?”

“Yeah, about that!” Ichabod said, rounding at the conductor who was leisurely perched on the lower step of the bus, wiping his face with a soaked handkerchief. “What the hell was that? I thought this was a bus, not an impromptu submarine!”

“I _said_ ‘close the windows, mister’, didn’t I, Ern?” the conductor said, looking nonplussed as he adjusted his hat on his head, clearly ignoring its vigorous dripping. “It managed better than expected. Will need to do some work on scraping the seaweed muck off the upholstered seating, and the chocolate powder for customers – ruined.”

“The nerve! You were to let us out near the ferry post,” Ichabod went on as he kept on pulling a seemingly never-ending string of seaweed from the inside of his coat. “We could’ve drowned!”

“We couldn’ve, mister, lots of Muggles about lounging there. And the drowning, no fret, by my calculations, we were still a good five minutes away from drowning.”

“Unbelievable. Just get lost.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Marvin the conductor said with a good-natured grin, Ichabod’s outburst clearly slipping completely past him. “And no fret, the bill for the ruined bus interior will be owled to your home address. Enjoy your holidayin’!”

Marvin hopped back into the bus, missing Ichabod’s obscene hand gesture. All its windows closed shut with a snap. The bus reared back into the water very hesitantly, like a swimmer dipping a toe into cold water. Then there was a crack and the bus disappeared under the surface with nothing but a _plonk_ left in its wake.

Muttering darkly, Ichabod pulled out a cigar, soaked by the looks of it. With a click of fingers, sparks popped from between his fingertips. Miraculously, he managed to light the end of the foul-smelling thing. It went up in grey smoke, sharp and stinging the eye. As he adjusted his wet jacket, the photo of young Ms. Prewett floated from within one of his pockets. Tired red eyes glared at the picture while he rubbed his face in exhaustion, the cigar in his hand singeing the end of his eyebrows.

“This one, she’ll get a proper earful from me once we find her. Couldn’t escape anywhere else but here? Middle of nowhere, no wizard dwellings in sight, and all this _wind and rain_.” He said it as if it were something dirty and for once Arthur agreed with him.

“It could be worse,” Arthur remarked in a tone of forced cheerfulness. He would not _let him know_ he agreed.

He fought an urge to look at the photograph and instead trained his gaze upon the rolling hills across the water. Nature was supposed to be good for you, gawking at someone’s photograph was not. He didn’t need to get too enamoured with an image of a woman he had never met. She was a real person, he reminded himself, not just a smiling face on paper. He felt like it would be an injustice to ogle her full lips and flowing curls. _Geog_ _r_ _aphy instead of photography, geography instead of photography_ , he repeated in his mind.

“Oi, Weasley, are you listening?”

Arthur jumped as Ichabod marched toward him, cigar now pointing straight in between his eyes.

“Get the trunks and let’s go, we need to find where we’re staying. And no magic.”

The Knight Bus had spat them out on the opposite side of the island of Easdale, far enough from the houses and main port. Arthur had bit his tongue and grabbed hold of the two trunks. One was on wheels, while the other one he carried under his arm. All the while as he followed Ichabod’s wet footsteps on the road, his own robes hanging wet and heavy off him, he was repeating a mantra under his breath: _just one more mission, and it will be over._ One more month with this idiot, and he’d have enough experience to re-qualify for the Auror position.

The wind was swift and pelted him with merciless drizzle that intensified as they approached the town. The determined Scottish raindrops had a tendency to drop right behind his collar and run down his back, a sensation all too familiar to when his brother slipped an ice cube down his shirt to torment Arthur.

Teeth clanking against each other, Arthur pined wistfully for his warm office back at the Ministry, the coffee steaming in the small kitchenette of the department. Despite the sometimes stale air of the place, it was dry, rainless and even Ichabod’s gloomy presence had been compensated by the constant buzz of exciting activity around him.

They climbed over the hill and emerged onto a road that allowed them a better view of the town. “Why...didn’t we just....Apparate?” Arthur managed to wheeze out as they came upon a little house with a red telephone box standing by its side. Old safety rings and buoys, their red paled from the sunlight, hung from the roof. It read ‘ferry terminal’ in peeling blue letters.

“Apparating long distances makes me sick.”

“Right. So the Knight Bus then makes perfect sense instead.”

“Did I ask for an opinion, Weasley? It’s better to avoid Muggles if we can help it.”

Arthur chose not to pursue the conversation any further. They entered the village and Arthur had to hold himself from not peering in every garden and every window, suddenly very curious to see how these Muggles lived on such a remote island, without the aid of magic and proper transportation, although arguably the Knight Bus left a lot to be desired.

While Ichabod was warily trying to check them into a Muggle bed and breakfast near the water, Arthur spotted a sign advertising a training in skimming stones for the upcoming world cup.

“How curious,” he whispered to himself, a small smile playing over his lips. He walked in between the slate covered houses to peer down at the two separate quarries full of water. A crowd of people milled about down there, young and old, boys and girls, laughing and cheering while each one of them in turn threw a stone in the water. Arthur watched with fascination as it skipped over the water, further than he’d ever seen.

He and Billius would sometimes have competitions in skipping stones, but they had always enchanted them and made them chase one another. Arthur wasn’t aware that Muggles could make the stones go so far without any magic involved.

“Look,” he said as he felt Ichabod stand next to him. The smell of the burning cigar dragged wherever the old man went, wrapping itself around them both. “We should go and take a look, they offer lessons here in skimming stones, can you believe it?” Arthur was momentarily overcome by a simple delight that erased all his previous disgruntlement.

Ichabod merely rolled his rheumy old eyes and coughed rather violently, which he followed with another plentiful drag. He fished two sandwiches wrapped in a plastic film, handing one to Arthur.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan is to dry ourselves, drink something and rest.”

“Erm, and what about the mission? The Prewett girl?”

“No rush, it can wait.”

“But...”

“I got it figured out, don’t you worry, Weasley. I got a very nifty finding spell, we will find her in no time as soon as I set it off, so no rush.”

“But if you know how to find her, why not just do it now?”

“Because it can’t look like it’s easy. We need to put on a show of great effort and personal pain and discomfort we had to undergo in order to find her. Easy doesn’t pay.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “So all this time...you, the grand detective, have been just sitting back for days if not weeks, letting families worry?”

“Weasley, please, spare me the sermon, I got bills to pay and maybe once you’re a big shot Auror at the Ministry, a spell like I’m about to teach you may come in handy, if you’re patient.” Ichabod gobbled down his sandwich in two swift bites and stuck the cigar back into its honourable place among his crooked teeth. Arthur’s reproach seemed to have as much effect on him as a lesser drying spell would’ve had on their sopping robes.

  
“I’ll see you inside.”

Arthur was tired, freezing and completely uninspired to argue with Ichabod any further. If only they weren’t standing in the rain, already drenched to the bone, a seagull circling over their head, cawing like a bad omen. With a deep breath, he tried to will himself to accept and revel in this unexpected adventure, surrounded by a towering wall of a cliff on one side, the deep blue sea on the next. Maybe he could work up enough energy to push Ichabod to actually do his bloody job.

Stomach rumbling, he unwrapped the sandwich, thinking that a bit of food could definitely summon some of his good humour.

With a sudden flap of the wings overhead, the seagull dove down at him, clanging its beak like a menacing pair of pincers in his face. Arthur let out a rather ungentlemanly shriek and the next thing he knew, his sandwich was flying away. All of of Arthur’s positivity was squashed as he watched the damned bird take to the sky, cackling, its sound reminding Arthur that he really hated the great outdoors.

* * *

The sunset found them cold in the room they shared, air saturated with the damp of their clothes. Arthur bustled with the kettle and tea set he had taken out of his trunk moments before, pouring himself and Ichabod a cup of steaming coffee. Apparently his lot of being a glorified secretary and maid followed him even out into the Scottish wilderness.

With a scowl, Arthur handed the mug to Ichabod. The latter was poring over a pile of scrolls, a large dusty tome and a pocket dictionary of Gaelic, scratching down notes and scribbles every now and then to fill the silence.

“So we’ve had our rest, when do we start?”

“Look through the girl’s file and pick four items that you feel best represent her.”

Arthur winced at this. His eyes darted to the brown folder resting on Ichabod’s night table.

“How would I know what best represents her? I don’t know her.”

“Agh, young minds think alike or whatever the saying is?” Ichabod prattled on, not even looking up from his papers. “You’re so eager to get on with the mission, do as I say.”

“I’m so eager? Shouldn’t you be eager?”

“I believe in slow and steady wins the race, boy.”

Sighing, Arthur ran a hand through his hair and picked up the folder uncertainly.

He sat down on the bed and hung the folder upside down. A handful of photographs fell out, along with a letter, a piece of yarn, two emerald earrings, a flower pressed in a glass orb and a peacock quill engraved with ‘ _to my beloved sister_ ’ on its side. There were scrolls documenting O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. results, signed and stamped by the Ministry as well as the Association of Magical Homeschooling. A certificate in draconology for the name M. Prewett crowned the pile of academic achievements.

Wrapped around it all was a soft cotton shawl, smelling of lilac and something soapy. A poster of a man Arthur thought was familiar caught his eye. The man’s eyes teased a smile while the rest of his expression maintained a broody air of mystery. He was clad in a leather vest, arms crossed, and he held his wand firmly in gloved hands. A couple of small hearts were scribbled around the printed text of _Edwyn Meridoc_.

It took Arthur a few seconds to realize he was glaring at the poster. He tossed it aside, deeming it unimportant and began sorting through the photographs instead. There was no more geography to occupy him while enclosed by the four white walls.

There was the photo of her sitting on a tree branch, and another one of her standing on a swing chair, eyes downcast but smiling, hair tied back. She wore fancy shoes and dress, but wore an apron over it, a strange contrast to Arthur’s eyes untrained in fashion.

A photograph of Dorothea and her husband standing shoulder to shoulder with their son Magnus, wearing his Hogwarts robes, a picture Arthur had spotted in the old lady’s parlour.

A photo of a young woman, standing next to a horse on an open plain, windswept hair and a frown upon her face. The woman reminded him intensely of Dorothea, with the scowl but also certain poise, confidence in her square shoulders, a steel determination in her eyes.

The last photo was of two men, one supporting his chin with his hand, the other looking upwards. As the photograph moved, the two looked at each other and broke into simultaneous laughter that soundlessly reached out from the paper and lifted the corners of Arthur’s mouth. A ghost of a feeling stole into Arthur’s heart, and he found he couldn’t bear to look at the photographs anymore.

He fingered the folded letter then, itching to open it. He noticed it was worn around the edges, as if having been read many times. Arthur chanced a glance at Ichabod, who was concealed by a wide scroll, only the rank smoke of his cigar rising from behind the parchment. With a quickening of heartbeat, he folded the letter into another half and stuffed it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He felt like it wasn’t his to read, investigation or not. Perhaps later, when they ran out of options, but for now, he wished to protect young Ms. Prewett’s privacy. Going through her stuff was mortifying enough for him, though it provided him with a tingling sense of wonder and curiosity he couldn’t deny.

Here was a girl with secrets and dreams. Here was someone who Arthur doubted wanted to be found.

He chose the photograph of the twin brothers, the unknown woman - mother or sister, Arthur truly couldn’t tell - the pressed flower and the quill. The rest he placed gently back into the folder.

“I have it,” he said, “I have the items ready.”

* * *

They were climbing up the hill towering over the small island. The night was fortunately dry, but the wind, albeit not too cold in the early summer season, still had the tendency to be exceptionally rude and infiltrate all the carefully tucked layers of their clothing.

Ichabod’s travelling cloak flapped in a wind so strong he had to hold down his flat cap with his hand. He checked the magical pocket watch attached to his waistcoat. Its hands ran in haphazard circular motions.

Arthur was huddling into his cotton sawtooth patterned jacket, wrapping the woollen scarf his mother knitted him tighter around his neck.

“You have the things?” Ichabod asked over the sound of the wind. Arthur nodded and pulled a bag of Ms. Prewett’s things, laying it softly on the grass. Crouching down, Ichabod rummaged through them briefly.

“Edwyn’s poster, why isn’t it here?”

“That dragon rider bloke? It didn’t look important, all girls have crushes, don’t they? I wouldn’t consider _that_ the most significant thing.”

“Hmm, well we don’t know that. Perhaps he was the reason she had run off, to join him in her infatuation. You are familiar with Edwyn Meridoc, are you not?”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur cleared his throat. “Sure I am. Witch Weekly’s Most Daring Adventurer of five consecutive years in a row. Draconologist extraordinaire. Though he had disappeared a year or so ago, disgraced from his job at the Ministry, it was rumoured.”

“Edwyn has indeed disappeared, but I assure you, lad, it was entirely of his own making. And I am certain it is connected to our young lass.”

“Well then I can’t help but ask again as to why we were sitting around doing _nothing_ for a day and a half? Do you think he’s dangerous, this fellow? Could Ms. Prewett be in danger?” Arthur asked, his voice rising to an unnatural pitch.

“Dangerous, I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s just a rogue that young women find handsome I suppose. Edwyn quit the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau at the Ministry himself over disputes with the newly appointed Head. The Prophet had a field day back then. He claimed some corrupt members of the department were passing information about dragon locations to dragon poachers. He wasn’t taken seriously at all because you don’t complain about the Ministry too openly, you see? Especially since your new Head of department has family in high places. Those Runcorns,” Ichabod spat the name out like a bone. “So now he’s running his own little operation, trying to find dragons and their lairs before the Ministry does, concealing them or smuggling them to reserves outside of Britain. But the last thing we need, Weasley, is to get involved in that mess, you understand me? We find the girl, explain the situation to her and take her home to her loving and doting mother. Now pay attention.”

Ichabod stood up straight and Arthur followed. The lights from the town below flickered only feebly. They were enveloped by darkness.

“Every witch and wizard have their essence, a magical footprint you can call it. My spell here will use some of her prized possessions, personal trinkets, bits and pieces of her identity, to connect to her trace. Some people are extremely easy to find, when they’re tied to things, worldly possessions we may call it, tangible material things, or people perhaps. Those who are detached have a very feeble trail for they are untethered.”

“Wait, so why are we not using it to catch criminals?”

“Well obviously dark wizards have ways how to make themselves untraceable. They use complex enchantments, good old Fidelius for example. Mind, we can still use the spell to pick up a trail, trace them to a location they might be staying at, but it’s practically useless because they can still elude us at their hideout. Lucky for us, in the business of private investigation, people that elope or run off with the family inheritance, don’t have the skill to conceal themselves to such an extent.”

“So you can find her? With a simple spell?”

“Hm, well, to my surprise, Ms. Prewett has a very faint trail, which suggests emotional detachment. Or perhaps emotional freedom.” Ichabod shrugged.

Arthur thought about a young girl whose whole family was cut down before their time. He tried to imagine how it must feel to lose a sister and brothers, to be left alone in this wide wild world.

He couldn’t.

“What is the incantation?”

“Faigh làrach.” When Arthur didn’t give a sign of recognizing the strangely shaped words, Ichabod continued.

“Spells and languages matter. The spell’s more potent when you utter the language of the earth you’re standing on. For now just mirror the motions of my wand, I’ll say the incantation. Ready?”

Arthur took a deep breath and nodded. He raised his wand and followed Ichabod’s hand in a series of patterns. Their wands left a trace of magical residue on the air, as if painting faded constellations into the folds of the night.

“ _Faigh_ _làrach coise_ _is_ _brìgh_ _den a ruith iad air falbh_.”

Arthur looked at Ichabod oddly, finding a sobering depth to the old man’s eyes.

Pale ghostly wisps emerged from the tip of Ichabod’s wand, coming together in a cloud of silver dust. The little lights then descended to envelop and seep into the few scattered pieces of Molly Prewett’s abandoned identity.

“ _Faigh_ _làrach coise_ _is_ _brìgh_ _den a ruith iad air falbh_.”

The cluster of magical particles dispersed and hovered above them for a moment, suspended like leftover shards of one’s soul against the starless sky. And then, wisp by wisp they floated away from them and ahead, leading down the hill and further into the darkness. In front of them opened a trail of what looked like a regiment of small hinkypunks, luring them into the unknown.

Without another word, they pulled their brooms out and took off to follow the path.


End file.
